Harriett (7 page)

“
I can do an autopsy in the morning and have a definite cause
of death by around eleven.”

“
Excellent.” Mark moved back toward the door. Once inside the
room his gaze immediately returned to Harriett, who hadn’t moved
from her place before the fire.

“
Why do you need our addresses?” Madame Humphries demanded
obstinately.

Detective Brown sighed deeply. It was late and he had to be
up in a few short hours. The last thing he wanted was to tussle
with a recalcitrant clairvoyant. “We have yet to ascertain how Mrs
Bobbington died. If it was of unnatural causes then we will need to
ask you some questions tomorrow.”

“
But I didn’t do anything. I was busy with the spirit world
and cannot tell you anything,” Madame protested. Her eyes darted
quickly around the room in a mute appeal for support that failed to
materialise.

“
Just give me your address, madam,” Isaac snapped, his pencil
and pad poised for action. He issued his order with a stern glare
that rendered the continued protests unspoken.

“
I live at 2b Whiteley Mansions, Hogsmere Road, Great Tipton.”
She spoke in clipped tones. Her face mutinously dared anyone to
comment on the fact that Whiteley Mansions were a block of flats
that were somewhat dishabille and on the less affluent side of
town.

“
Thank you, Madame Humphries, is it?” Isaac made no attempt to
keep his doubt out of his voice as to the legitimacy of her name.
He could make a few discrete enquiries tomorrow at a more
reasonable hour that would be less challenging than questioning the
woman, and undoubtedly gain more accurate results.

“
That’s right, Augusta Humphries.”

Isaac
wisely kept his mouth shut. Although the woman spoke with a strange
foreign accent, she was no more foreign than his left shoe. Unless
he was mistaken, there was a faint twang of a Scottish accent in
there somewhere. He made a note to find out why the woman pretended
to be Hungarian and moved sideways to stand before the small
bird-like woman who seemed to be with Madame.

“
You are?”

“
Miss Gertrude Hepplethwaite.”

“
You are part of the -” He waved a hand vaguely around the
room as though searching for a name to call the assorted
group.

“
Oh, no, I am an assistant to Madame Humphries. I have been
with her for several years now and -”

“
Quite.” Isaac heaved a mental sigh. “Do you live at –” he
nodded sideways toward Madame Humphries and lifted his brows at the
indignant expressions on both women’s faces.

“
Oh no, it’s not like that at all. I live at 14 Thirlmere
Gardens, Great Tipton.”

Before
the woman could break into a diatribe about her association with
the great Madame, Isaac moved sideways again to stand before the
woman who had greeted them at the front door.

“
Babette Marchington.”

“
I take it this is your house?” Isaac felt an immediate
kinship toward the woman before him. She was about middle aged, but
it was difficult to associate her with the slightly ageing man who
had arrived at the station a couple of hours earlier to report a
death at the Psychic Circle in Tipton Hollow. The woman before him
was of average height with a slightly curvy build but had a
practicality about her that immediately assured him that he would
get straight to the facts and receive the absolute truth. He liked
that in a person. With a nod, he scribbled down the address: 29
Daventry Street, Tipton Hollow, and moved sideways
again.

“
Miss Caroline Smethwick. I live at Morningside Cottage,
Mallows Road, Tipton Hollow.”

Isaac
glanced back at Babette and motioned toward Madame Humphries. “Are
you helping erm?”

“
Oh no, we are members of the Tipton Hollow Psychic Circle. It
was our first meeting tonight,” Babette announced and threw
Harriett a rueful glance.

“
And our last,” Harriett muttered. She caught movement out of
the corner of her eye and turned around only to find the Detective
Inspector mere feet away. Her nervousness dissipated at the smile
he only just managed to hide at her comment and her cheeks flooded
with embarrassment.

“
Don’t be like that dear. We don’t know what happened yet and
I don’t see why it should stop us from having another evening,”
Babette murmured wryly. If she was honest, she was going to move
heaven and earth to ensure that the Psychic Circle never held
another meeting as long as she lived.

Harriett
rolled her eyes and puffed out her cheeks. While she lived and
breathed she would never willingly take part in another evening
like this. It had been far too strange, even if she discounted the
death of one of their members. Sitting in the dark holding hands
with her friends was something she could live with. Sitting in the
dark while receiving sinister threats and messages that made no
sense, while watching a middle aged woman huff and puff, and glow
in the dark, was something she could definitely live
without.

“
Not in this house,” the words were out before she could stop
them and she sensed rather than saw Mr Bentwhistle’s smothered
chuckle.

How
anybody could contemplate another evening like this was beyond her,
but she had no doubt that at some point someone would suggest doing
it again. She could only hope that it wouldn’t be for many, many
years hence, and she would be the one sending the messages rather
than receiving them. At least then she could make sure that they
would be understood. She shook her head and watched the tall,
distinguished figure of the Detective Inspector step toward her.
She watched, transfixed, as he removed a small notepad from his
jacket pocket and a small pencil.

“
What is your name?” His soft voice was a deep rumble that was
strangely intimate.

Harriett
felt her mouth open but no words came out. She didn’t know what to
say. Words hovered in a confused jumble and she knew that if she
spoke any of them she would make a complete fool of herself. Was
that sandalwood cologne he was wearing? Seconds, or was that
minutes, ticked past before a cough from Mr Montague broke her out
of her trance.

“
Harriett Marchington,” she replied dully. She tried really
hard to gather her wits about her. She wasn’t sure whether she
should hold her wrists out so he could handcuff her and take her
off to the station. Right now, she wasn’t sure she would object if
he did.

No wonder he is so successful,
she
mused as she eyed the seemingly endless expanse of broad shoulders
beneath the precision cut of his expensive suit.

“
Marchington?” Mark frowned into her eyes but inwardly smiled
at the awkwardness she struggled so hard to hide. He knew he had
thrown her off balance. The knowledge that he had such a profound
effect on her made him want to shout for joy. At least he wasn’t
alone with the awareness that hovered within them. He felt all at
sea too. “Are you related?”

“
To who?” The words were out before she could stop them.
Harriett inwardly cringed and glanced over at Babette. “Oh, yes, of
course. We share the house. Well, she is my aunt.” Harriett lapsed
into silence and wanted to climb behind the curtain and hide until
he had gone. What was it about this man who had such a strong
affect on her intelligence? Usually she had no problem having a
normal, sensible conversation with anyone. With him? Logic
disappeared out of the window and she turned into a babbling
wreck.

Mark’s
lips twitched but he wisely remained silent and jotted her name and
address down in his notebook with a hand that trembled
slightly.

“
Did she report to anyone that she felt ill prior to her
collapse?”

Harriett
frowned and mutely shook her head. Her response was echoed by the
murmurs of denial that rippled around the room.

Mark was
only vaguely aware of Mr Hugo Montague giving Isaac his name and
the address of the Bobbin and Lace Haberdashery above which he
lived at 66 High Street, Tipton Hollow, as he moved sideways to
face the rather dour man who stood beside Harriett.

He took
the opportunity to glance at Harriett. She was staring at him with
a slightly stunned look in her eye; as though she wasn’t sure what
had just happened. He wanted to sit with her for a while and find
out everything about her, and almost wished he had more questions
about the woman’s death so that he had a reason to talk to her some
more. Harriett. He rolled the name around in his mind, testing its
size. It felt strangely comfortable; just like the woman beside
him. When Mr Bentwhistle shifted awkwardly, Mark gave himself a
mental shake and looked at the familiar figure of the funeral
director.

“
I take it you are not one of Madame Humphries’ assistants?”
he asked wryly. He watched Alan Bentwhistle roll his eyes and shake
his head. “Oh yes, this is my evening job. I decided to come out of
curiosity, that’s all,” he reported dryly.

“
I don’t need to ask if you still live at 48 High
Street?”

“
The one and the same,” Alan replied. “What do you think it
was?” He asked as he nodded toward Mrs Bobbington on the
floor.

“
Don’t know yet. But until we have a definite cause of death,
we have to make sure that we have everything covered,” Mark
replied. He offered Harriett a reassuring look. “I will arrange for
her to be removed quickly.”

Harriett
nodded but before she could speak, Doctor Woods appeared in the
doorway. “Two men from the station are outside now and are going to
arrange a carriage to take her to the hospital.”

“
Thank you,” Harriett replied before Mark could
speak.

Mark
reluctantly moved on to the rather pretty young lady who stood
beside Mr Bentwhistle.

“
My name is Beatrice Northolt. I live at Brantley Manor on
Tiverton Street, Tipton Hollow.” Her voice was crisp and clear.
Mark had no doubt that she was one of Harriett’s friends, and he
offered her a smile of reassurance.

“
Thank you,” he nodded only to frown slightly when her eyes
widened and she gasped. Had he said something wrong? He glanced at
Harriett only to find her gaze locked on him just as intently. What
was wrong with everyone? Were they all spooked, or just really
strange? He immediately discounted the notion that there was
anything unusual about Harriett: She was very pretty, but
definitely not strange. A small voice reminded him that most of the
people present had never been in a psychic circle before, and had
experienced heaven only knew what before they had witnessed a death
of one of their acquaintances. They had then waited with the body
for some time until he and his colleagues arrived. The hour was now
well past midnight and everyone was bound to be tired and
over-wrought.

He
stepped sideways toward the pretty blonde woman who had yet to
speak and looked more than a little shell-shocked. He jotted down
her details: Eloisa Jones, Hope Cottage, Perkins Road, Tipton
Hollow. The last words were barely written before Isaac appeared at
his elbow and took the details of the woman who was beside
Eloisa.

Tuppence
Smethurst, Hilltop Farm, Tipton Hollow. Her voice was almost harsh
and, from the look of it, she had some sort of problem with Isaac.
At least, that was one reason why she seemed to be glaring at
Mark’s associate as though she wanted to throw him out of the
door.

Mark
hadn’t seen Tuppence before and wondered if she was new to the
area. “How long have you lived in Tipton Hollow, Miss
Smethurst?”

“
All of my life,” Tuppence replied, her voice now soft and
amiable.

Mark
nodded and looked at Isaac, who was uncharacteristically scowling
deeply at Tuppence. He sighed and nudged Isaac who dutifully moved
along the line.

“
I am Constance Dalrymple, and this is my mother.” She
beckoned to the rather matronly lady beside her. “We live at
Windmill Mews, just off the Manor Road, Tipton Hollow.”

“
I know it,” Mark replied with a smile. He didn’t need to ask
if the ladies lived together. The resemblance between them was
remarkable. He moved on to the last person in the line. He watched
Isaac jot down the details of Miss Betty Haversham who lived at 88
Daventry Street, Tipton Hollow.

With a
sigh, Mark turned to the group just as there was a knock on the
front door. He watched David Woods head out to let the latest
arrivals in. Everyone was solemn and silent as they watched the men
carefully place Mrs Bobbington on the stretcher and carry her from
the house. David followed them to the door and paused to look at
Mark. “I will be in touch with you tomorrow.”

Mark
nodded and turned his attention to the room. As soon as the body
had gone everyone seemed to imperceptibly relax, although nobody
moved.

“
Until we can ascertain the cause of death, I suggest that you
all go home and stay there. Unfortunately, because of the fact that
this is an unexplained death, you must remain at home tomorrow
until you either receive word that you are allowed to go about your
business, or myself and Detective Brown arrive to ask you further
questions.”

“
But I have appointments tomorrow, I simply cannot sit at home
and wait,” Madame Humphries protested. She was clearly horrified at
the thought that she might actually be suspected of anything
untoward.